


A Talk

by peachytuggles



Category: Ginger Snaps (Movies)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 14:54:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17851697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachytuggles/pseuds/peachytuggles
Summary: A conversation with a hallucination.(A repost. Originally posted to AO3 in July 2018.)





	A Talk

**Author's Note:**

> Slight body horror warning and mentions of death. Takes place in the space between the first two movies. <3

She wakes with a start. Even though she’s burrowed under a thick blanket - black, patterned with little white stars and moons, one of the few comfort items she’d tucked in her backpack when she fled home- she’s shivering. The crummy motel room walls are paper thin and can’t totally block out the chill of a Canadian night in December, but it’s somehow even colder in the room now than it was when she first laid down. Brigitte lets out a shallow breath and squints in the dim light afforded by the glowing red numbers of the digital alarm clock. She can see the door to her room, wide open, swinging with the night air, a little sliver of light from a street lamp pouring into the doorway. 

She goes still. She most certainly didn't leave the door opened. This isn't right. Blinking rapidly to clear her mind, it dawns on her that he might be here. He might have gotten in. He might have busted her door open in the night. Brigitte is in very real danger.

Without moving, still resting on her side, she lets her eyes rove over the shadows of her room, trying to make out the dim shape of a figure. If he’s here hiding in the shadows, the worst reaction she could have would be to move too quickly and alert him. So she lays still, sniffing for any hint of her pursuer. She doesn’t smell him, but panic curls around her muscles when she suddenly feels the shifting of weight at the foot of the bed. There’s  _ something _ here. Slowly, barely, Brigitte bites down on her thumb and cranes her neck to the side and over her shoulder as much as her aching muscles will let her. 

She can see a human being shaped lump sitting at her toes, just out of the reach of the light. Dread sinks in her stomach. She’s going to be robbed or raped or murdered, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. Then, she hears the human shape shift and their voice comes out in a strangled little whisper, and Brigitte is sure that she’s going crazy.

“You awake, Bee?”

Her blood runs cold, and Brigitte sits up lightening fast, flinging her blanket aside. The figure at the end of the bed jumps up just as fast, making a shocked noise in the back of their throat and jolting to the side.

“Who are you?” Brigitte tries to sound hard and intimidating, but her throat is dry and panic is setting in. There’s just no way that-

The figure scoffs. “Seriously? You don’t recognize your own sister?”

She chokes, shrinks back against the headboard of the bed. There’s no way. There’s just no way.

“You recognize me, don’t you?”

She stares at the figure, mouth open. Her tongue feels numb, and her heart is hammering in her chest ferociously. They’re standing at the edge of her bed, unmoving, and in the dim light she just can make out their form against the shadows of the rest of the room. With a shaky hand, she reaches for the bedside lamp and clicks it on. 

The intruder is bathed in the soft yellow glow of the light, and she gets a good, clear look at them though she immediately wishes she couldn’t see them right now. Brigitte’s hand flies to her open mouth to supress a scream that’s welling up in her throat.

It’s Ginger. 

But it can’t be Ginger. Because Ginger is not alive anymore.

She bites her knuckles so hard she can taste blood.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Brigitte’s eyes flit between Ginger and the doorway, and she wonders if she can make a run for it. There’s no way this is real. This can’t be happening. 

“I’ve missed you,” Ginger says, slinking closer.

She presses her back against the headboard, scrabbling for distance between her and this Ginger zombie.

“This is a dream,” she whimpers. It has to be a dream. 

Ginger is suddenly in front of her, kneeling, reaching for her. “It’s not a dream, Bee.”

“Why are you here?” Brigitte whimpers around her white knuckle, eyes wide.

“I missed you.”

The Ginger corpse or spirit or whatever-she-is reaches forward and presses her palms to Brigitte’s bare skin.

“I’ve missed you,” she says again, giving a little squeeze.

Ginger’s hands are ice cold and heavy on Brigitte’s knees, and Brigitte’s breath catches in her throat when they slip upward to her shoulders to find purchase in her chunky knit-wool sweater. Large claws catch in the soft material when Ginger flexes her fingers.

“Bee, don’t you miss me, too?” Her voice is hoarse, thick, like she can barely breathe, like...like… she’s been asleep for a long time. 

She forces herself to breathe through her nose, and Ginger grips her shoulders more tightly, smiling a little, that wild Ginger spark glinting in her eyes.

Brigitte wants to scream, wants to thrash out of her sister’s grasp and set fire to the whole motel room, but her muscles won’t work. She remains stiff and stunned, perched on the edge of the bed, her bony fingers ghostly white and clutching at the sheets beneath her for dear life.

_ It’s not real. _

_ This isn’t real. _

“Bee,” Ginger says again, leaning in closer, and Brigitte can smell the metallic ghost of blood that flows from her lips, can feel a cold shiver work its way up her spine and to the base of her neck.

She feels like vomiting. This is a dream. It has to be a dream. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s dreamed of Ginger. No, not a dream, a nightmare. This is just another Ginger nightmare. It has to be.

She stares back at Ginger slack jawed, trying her best to will her muscles to unfreeze so she can bolt for the door of the motel room, which is still swinging wide open in the cold night air, little snowflakes whirring through the entrance and melting on the worn out carpet.

“Bee,” Ginger says, and her tone has taken on a more insistent edge. She’s getting frustrated with the lack of response. “Don’t you miss me? I know you miss me.”

Something in Brigitte snaps, and she shakes in Ginger’s grip then, lurching forward, hunching over, scrabbling at either temple. Ginger pulls her hands away, but continues to kneel in front of her, eyes on Brigitte, mouth set in a thin line.

“Why are you here?” Brigitte groans, pulling at her hair hard, and to her dismay she can feel the pain shooting through her scalp.

“Because I missed you.”

“Missed me? Missed me? Ginger, you’re-” she dry heaves and slides off the bed, practically into Ginger’s lap. She can’t say it. She doesn’t want to say it.

“I’m what?” Ginger asks, and she grabs either of Brigitte’s wrists then, pulling her close. 

Her skin is so cold, like she’s been laying in the thick snow outside, like she’s made of glass, like she’s-

Brigitte dry heaves again, and she can feel her spine twist uncomfortably, can feel the muscles in her arms and legs pull taught, like something is stretching underneath her skin, trying to break free. She needs her Wolfsbane. This isn’t a dream. She needs her daily shot. She tries to pull from Ginger’s grasp, still shaking and groaning like a wounded animal.

But Ginger’s hold only tightens, and she pulls Brigitte close until their cheeks touch.

“What am I?” she bites, stroking clawed fingers through her sister’s long, thick hair. “What am I?”

Tremors overtake her body and pain shoots from Brigitte’s forehead to the tips of her toes. She can’t do this. Her already tenuous grip on reality feels like it’s breaking in her palms, snapping like the delicate bones of a bird. The lycanthrope within her is screaming, aching to take over just for a moment. Ginger squeezes her painfully close, and she gasps, shifting in her sister’s lap.

“You’re DEAD, Ginger! You’re fucking DEAD! I killed you!” her screams echo painfully from her mouth, like the words are being vomited up with the very knife she had turned back on her older sister months ago. “I killed you, Ginger,” she sobs, curling in on herself.

It’s the first time she’s admitted it aloud. It’s the first time she’s really, truly realized what she’s done. She chokes on her own spit, tears coating her hollow cheeks and burning her eyes.

Beneath her Ginger goes frighteningly still, like a corpse ought to be. When Ginger died she wasn’t human. She was a monster, an honest to God monster. The corpse holding Brigitte right now is all wrong, and seeing this human body makes her confession all the more difficult. 

Brigitte wails like a tiny child, digging her knuckles into her eye sockets and ignoring the heavy weight in her stomach. Ginger does not respond, just holds her silently, icy arms chilling Brigitte even more than the thick snow that’s blowing in around them. 

Brigitte sobs and sobs and sobs. She sobs until her throat feels like it’s closed up and her eyes are swollen and red and dry. She sobs until the fire in her stomach becomes nearly unbearable and she has to pull away and take a ragged breath, dragging a hand down her face.

She’s so tired. She needs her Wolfsbane.

“I had to kill you,” she finally croaks pathetically, cupping her hands around Ginger’s pale cheeks. “It was the only way.”

Her older sister doesn't reply, but she is rigid in Brigitte’s palms, her mouth curling into a familiar Ginger snarl, the face she would always make when she was growing tired of Brigitte’s snivelling.

“I had to,” she repeats, eyes wide, thumbs brushing Ginger’s cold, waxy skin. She shivers. This body in front of her is real, but it's not quite right, the texture of the skin too smooth, the temperature too low, the human form all wrong. When Ginger died she wasn't Ginger. She was a lycanthrope.

So there's no way this is real. This can't be real. Brigitte can’t believe it’s real.

But the way Ginger stares at her, a twinge of anger in her furrowed brows and downturned mouth feels and looks so real. She wants to believe it’s real. 

This Ginger is so different from the Ginger she’s seen in her fuzzy nightmares, and she wonders if the Wolfsbane, the infected blood coursing through her veins, the lack of proper sleep and food, something, is finally getting to her and giving her full blown waking hallucinations.

“Well, gee, thanks for murdering me I guess,” Ginger says. Her mouth is curled into a nasty little smile. “But lucky for you the Big Buddha let me come back for you.”

With a little chuff, she curls her pale fingers in Brigitte’s hair and strokes the back of her neck in soothing little movements. Brigitte whimpers. She feels weak and cold, and it’s all getting to her now.  _ This is really Ginger.  _ A small voice in the corner of her mind says with shaky, breathless confidence. She leans into Ginger’s hands, lets her rough claws caress her clammy cheeks and forehead. Ginger cups her face in her cool palms, and Brigitte’s stomach rumbles uncomfortably. She can smell old blood and dirt under Ginger’s nails, can feel grime and dried stains on her fingertips.

“You said you’d never leave me,” her older sister says, and though her expression is neutral, there’s some sort of anger under her eyes, something forceful about the way she grips Brigitte’s face. “But you did leave me. You killed me.”

“I’m sorry,” Brigitte says sadly. She doesn’t know what else she’s supposed to say. She is sorry, and she’s spent every night of the past three months tossing and turning and trying to force up the dark mass that twists and turns in her. She hasn’t felt anything but grief since the night she killed Ginger, and now her eyes and throat ache from all the crying she just did.

She misses Ginger more than anything in the world. No matter how volatile she and her sister could be, they were soulmates, two sad little bodies that revolved around one another in a desolate and airless space. And now that’s all gone. It’s enough to bring a fresh round of gaspy, pathetic sobs to her chest. It burns hotter than the monster in her blood cells.

“I’m here for you now, Bee,” Ginger murmurs into her hair. 

Brigitte’s hair was once thick and full, poofy and nearly unmanageable. Since the curse it’s become limp and constantly greasy. It looks and feels deflated and lifeless. 

“I’ll help you,” Ginger says, stroking her cheek again.

Brigitte’s skin used to be smooth and clean and pale. Now it has a horrid layer of ashen gray underneath. She looks sickly and zombified. Her dark bruised under eyes and chapped, sad mouth don’t help her appearance.

“You need me,” Ginger says, and she pulls away from Brigitte.

Brigitte tucks her legs underneath her body and wheezes a little. It’s true. She’s been miserable for months. Living without Ginger has been unbearable.

“I do need you, Ginge,” Brigitte says pathetically. 

“And now you’re stuck with me,” she says with her signature wicked sneer. “I’m here now.”

“So that’s it? You’re just here with me now?”

“I can’t die without you, and you can’t die without me,” she replies, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“So you’re here to protect me?”

Ginger doesn’t answer. She is standing up now, slouched over and staring at Brigitte with an unreadable expression. She looks terrifying in the low light of the lamp, shadows creating little gashes in her features, body arched as if prepared to pounce. The two sisters are quiet, watching each other with wary eyes, Brigitte trying to calm her wavering breaths, Ginger flexing her fingers. 

The room is cold enough now that the snow pouring into the doorway is starting to pile up in a slushy mess. Brigitte shivers. Her bones ache, and the fire in her blood blazes. Her stomach constricts with pain. She still needs her Wolfsbane shot.

With a ragged breath she pulls herself to her feet and makes her way to her battered duffle bag. She finds the small wooden box that she keeps her syringes and vials of Wolfsbane oil and shuffles to the cramped bathroom, Ginger skulking behind her.

Brigitte grits her teeth when she injects herself, and she tries to ignore Ginger’s face next to hers in the filthy mirror. The poison burns like hell in her veins, and she instantly feels a little more clear-headed. Ginger’s reflection wavers a bit.

She repacks her things and steps to the door to lock the room back up. Her sister doesn’t leave her side. It’s almost like all of her dreams where Ginger is still alive and things are normal, but this is real. She’s awake. She doesn’t know how much of this she believes, whether Ginger is a hallucination or not, and she still doesn’t know how the door to her room came open. But questioning it will open up a whole new set of problems and cause her even more anxiety.

“You know he’s close, right?” Ginger says, falling to the unused bed and crossing her legs casually. 

Brigitte stops in the middle of pulling the deadbolt. “He’s close?”

“Yes.”

Brigitte’s heart thrums in her ribcage.

“He’s been following you since you ran,” Ginger continues. “This is the closest he’s ever gotten to you.”

Brigitte starts to panic. She can’t yet smell him nearby, but she thinks she hears a howl somewhere far away. Fear takes root in her guts.

“But you’ve still got some time before he finds you,” Ginger says, pressing a palm to her cheek and yawning.

“So that’s why you’re here. To warn me.”

Ginger doesn’t reply. She only crosses her arms and bares her fangs.

“Do you want me to turn?” Brigitte asks, scrubbing at her dry, sore eyes. She thinks she already knows what Gingers’ answer will be though.

Ginger smiles.

“It’s only natural, Bee. You have to turn some time, and you’re getting closer every day.”

Brigitte shudders. “I don’t want to turn.”

“I know. You can resist all you want. But you’ll turn eventually,” Ginger says with sureness.

Brigitte frowns. This is the Ginger she remembers, erratic and controlling, even in her mind’s over-active delusions. 

“I won’t turn.”

Ginger laughs, and it sounds so hollow, so sad. “You will.”

“I won’t ever be like you,” Brigitte lies. 

Her sister gives another weak, melancholy chortle, and Brigitte’s heart is overcome with longing at her sister’s mirthless smile. She misses Ginger so much. It hurts to see her body stretched across the hotel comforter, looking almost human and so...okay. It’s unfair.

“You’ll be like me one day,” Ginger says, eyes slipping closed.

Brigitte imagines she can hear another howl somewhere outside of the motel room, and she shivers. 

  
  
  



End file.
